Lissa Kiernan Conjuring Ada At first I did not want you. I did not realize that a baby
was not some consolation prize, baby.Ceilings made of glass, bras burning on front lawns;
we had come a long way from baking pies, baby.I wore the power suits, read What Color is Your Parachute?
In hindsight, all a pack of lies, baby.I would make room for you somewhere down the line.
Until then, I'd compartmentalize a baby.Put you on a shelf, take you down from time to time—
conjure you, try you on for size, baby.Corkscrew curls and putto cheeks, a laugh to bury grief,
avid fingers and the most delicious thighs, baby.I would stroll you to the park, push you on the yellow swing,
watch your face embrace the open sky, baby.One night, you'd sniff the air and declare "it smells like moon";
I'd know then you weren't long to be my baby.At last, fueled half by faith, half a bottle of red wine,
I winked at Dad: take off your old Levi's, baby.Years elapse lying on the doctor's metal table.
Just as I give up, she bustles in and sighs, baby.It isn't hard to recognize the forecast on her face.
Once more, your Mama's belly will not rise, baby.